


and there all the honor lies

by ayuminb



Series: And There All the Honor Lies [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (Lya is a Brat - she's also thirsty AF but unable to recognize it), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Characters - Ned & Benjen, Background Relationships - Starklings Bonding, Canon Divergence - Tourney at Harrenhal, F/M, Ft. Crazy like a Fox Aerys II Targaryen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14363922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: [It is a sad realization that not even the very much loved, honorable, and charismatic Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is above attempting to seduce young maids.]Or - in which Rhaegar makes his choice, Lyanna is not a happy puppy, and Robert is not having any of this bullshit.





	and there all the honor lies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bythunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bythunder/gifts).



> follow us at [All the Wolves have Antlers](https://allthewolveshaveantlers.tumblr.com/)

The Prince’s horse seems to falter, before it presses forth, moving past the smiling Princess Elia, past the watchful eye of King Aerys—the crowd holds its breath, Benjen gasps behind her, Brandon and Ned freeze at her sides—and Lyanna feels as if the world were suddenly bearing its weight down on her, unforgiving.

 

 _No_ , she thinks, might’ve even flinched back had Ned not whispered urgently to _watch out for Brandon_ in her ear. _I didn't want this_ , she thinks as her hand falls on her older brother's arm, as she feels a sudden chill run down her spine, terrifying and unpleasant. _I told him I didn't._ But Prince Rhaegar clearly ignored her words; what little they had spoken the past three days, she'd thought him attentive, believed him to be truly interested in what she had to say, _sympathizing_ with her situation. Honorable and gentle, Prince Rhaegar had appeared before her, exuding all the qualities her betrothed sorely lacked, and she'd let herself enjoy his attention, however foolish that might’ve been.

 

Because Lyanna had believed him too honorable to ever do anything about her blooming infatuation. _But this, this—_ She risks a brief glance in the Princess Elia's direction, glimpses her carefully polite expression, the forced smile, the way her small hand clings to Prince Oberyn's arm. Feeling like she's falling into a pit of despair, Lyanna turns back, her gaze meeting indigo eyes – that only yesterday she'd thought bore the gentlest look, _now_ , it pierces through her with an intensity that frightens her as he lowers his lance and lets the wreath of winter roses slide down.

 

The wave of anger hits her unexpectedly, but she welcomes it, righteous fury and indignation. _Where is the honor in this? How can he shame his wife so?_ Even _Robert_ , who already has a bastard tucked away in The Vale of Arryn, and the Gods know how many _more_ that she knows nothing of, has had the decency not to shame her while they attend this Tourney. _How can he do this?_ The urge to stomp her feet and let out a loud whine is strong, as much a struggle to rein it in as it is to make her expression to go blank. She's never had the need to do so before. Not even as she bears Robert's affections and clumsy attempts at courting her, she can never quite keep the displeasure off her face. Her quiet defiance amused him to no end, he's said, as he would give her carefully constructed bouquets of assorted flowers. _I cannot stop this._ Whatever regard she had for the Prince is being quickly eroded as he insists on crowning her Queen of Love and Beauty. _But I will not accept it willingly._

 

It is a sad realization that not even the very much loved, _honorable_ , and charismatic Prince Rhaegar Targaryen is above attempting to seduce young maids. _I should have not agreed to private talks with him._ Her grey gaze falls on her lap, and Lyanna awaits the inevitable. _I should have known better._ Young and foolish and reckless, he lord father has always told her that. Because the consequences of this action would fall on her, her honor and reputation besmirched. She would be called names behind her back, countless rumors of—

 

“No.”

 

The razor-sharp, disbelieving rumbling of a voice is what breaks the silence; the gasps that echo all around, the neighing of a horse, and _then_ – the wreath of winter roses never falls on her lap. There’s the rustling of clothes, Ned’s urgent whispers, and then a shadow falls over her. And then Lyanna looks up, startled, sees the looming form of her betrothed stand before the Prince, one steady hand gripping the blunted lance, and effectively stopping the wreath’s descent.

 

“My _Prince_ ,” says Robert and Lyanna wishes she could see his face now, for _that_ – that is not the jolly timbre she's grown used to hear over the past few days. So much _venom_ in a single word, she never thought it possible of Robert. “Certainly, you _jest_. Certainly, your visor must impede your sight, for why else – _why else_ would you bypass your wife and crown my betrothed instead?” His hand shakes, before jerking the lance to point at Princess Elia. “While I firmly believe that Lady Lyanna is the loveliest lady to ever walk the halls of Harrenhal, _you should not_.”

 

 _You should not believe it_ , he means. _You should not think it. You should not be looking at her._ Lyanna hates the underlying possessiveness of his words, but she'll take that now, so long as she's spared the shame and the blame that's certain to fall her way once Prince Rhaegar places that crown of flowers on her lap.

 

It is only as Brandon places his hand atop hers that Lyanna realizes she'd been squeezing his arm perhaps too tightly. It also helps bring her attention to the moment; the crowd nervous muttering, the way some people can't seem to stop stealing glances at King Aerys. She risks one too, just to assess his reaction, but other than watching the exchange unfolding attentively, he looks almost bored.

 

“I do not jest, my lord.” Prince Rhaegar lifts his visor, meets her eyes briefly before focusing on Robert. “Lady Lyanna—”

 

“No.” Robert pushes the lance back up forcefully, enough that some members of the Kingsguard shift on their feet and place their hands on the pommel of their swords. “I will not stand for it.”

 

Ned jumps to his feet, placing a hand on Robert’s shoulder as the murmurs grow among the people in attendance. Lyanna holds her chin high, intends to help her brother placate his dear friend; she may not be fond of Robert, not as the man that would wed her once she turns six-and-ten nor even as a friend, but she does not want him to incur King Aerys’ ire for calling out Prince Rhaegar’s faux pas. Not as the Knight of the Laughing Tree had done for so much _less_. But Brandon holds her in place, and not even a glare aimed at him would dissuade him; her big brother glares back and traps her arm in his hold.

 

“Do not,” he says, softly so only she might hear.

 

Ned keeps trying. “Robert—”

 

“I will not stand for this slight on my lady’s honor,” he says, booms out more precisely, his voice carrying across the field. “Nor will I stand for the insult you’ve given to her noble house and mine.”

 

The silence falls over the field; everything seems to freeze.

 

“Rhaegar Targaryen, I challenge you to a duel.”

 

*****

 

The King allows it.

 

There's a brief outrage after Robert's statement; the Kingsguard gripping the hilt of their blades and threatening to advance. Lords and ladies alike murmuring in shock, feigned or genuine, it matters not. Everyone is quick to fall silent again soon enough.

 

Because King Aerys stands, there's a hint of a smile on his face though it is hard to say for certain, but the twisted delight he exudes is hard to ignore.

 

“Father, I'm sure Lord Baratheon doesn't mean anything by this.”

 

Prince Rhaegar tries to pacify him, same as he'd done when the King issued his command to apprehend the mystery knight, with just as much success. There's a slight panicking tint to his words, that Lyanna cannot understand. _He cannot refuse, he'll risk the judgment of the people if he does._ The challenge is already out in the open, and under severe accusations, if the Prince were to refuse…

 

“Is that correct, my lord?”

 

Robert tilts his head slightly towards the King, but even from her place it's obvious his focus remains on the man sitting atop a restless horse. “I meant every word I said,” he replies.

 

King Aerys, keeping his focus on Prince Rhaegar, smiles in something akin to triumph. “My son has delivered a grave insult to the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands and Lady Lyanna, his betrothed and the only daughter of the Warden of the North,” he says, measuring his words and tone. “He has shamed the bride I _painstakingly_ chose for him, the woman who carries his second child, and in doing so has shamed _me_.” The pause he makes then is chilling. “All because of a whim.”

 

Every single pair of eyes focuses on the King, who now shows none of the paranoia from days prior nor any of the disinterest that's clung to him through the entirety of the Tourney. He descends the steps and moves closer to the wooden rail, waves his hands at Prince Rhaegar, calling him to come closer. There's a concerned look upon him as he cups his son’s face.

 

“You will not refuse, my son,” says King Aerys, a gentle tone that veils something she can’t quite define. “For what kind of message would that send to our people? If their future King faces no consequences for his thoughtless actions?”

 

An endless pause later, the Prince nods. “Yes, Father.”

 

King Aerys turns to Lord Whent, orders that the field be ready by dawn, that the duel would happen then, before turning and walking away. His Kingsguard follow him, only Ser Arthur Dayne remains. The Princess Elia is the next one to leave, on the arm of her brother; she spares not a glance towards her husband, while Prince Oberyn seems to glare enough for both.

 

Robert remains a veritable wall that stands between her and Prince Rhaegar, and while a part of her resents the implications of it, a bigger part thanks him silently. Once the Prince has dismounted, handed the reins to his squire, and walked away – only then Robert moves. Turns to face her just as she and Brandon stand up, giving a small nod, before he, too, walks away.

 

Ned sighs, drags a hand down his long face before turning to them. “I must go make sure he does nothing reckless.”

 

 _More reckless, you mean._ It is, perhaps, an unkind thought, for Robert only reacted as such for the perceived slight on her honor. This madness that would unfold come dawn, it is because of her. _No, it is not._ Lyanna shakes her head, untangles her arm from Brandon's so she may grip the skirts of her gown. _I asked for nothing_ , she thinks viciously, _I do not need to be honored nor defended._ She yearns for the tourney sword tucked away at the bottom of Benjen's trunk, yearns to smack the Prince for ignoring her explicitly voiced wishes and Robert for trying to play the gallant knight – _consequences be damned_.

 

“You do that, Ned.” Brandon glances her way, places a firm hand on her shoulder, and begins steering her to the steps. “We won't be attending the feast tonight.”

 

Ned leaves to find Robert, Benjen hurries behind them, and the northmen sent to protect them all surround them at once. _As if expecting us to be assaulted._ And then she realizes, and then the anger sweeps over her again – and something else she won't care to admit. _Not us. Just me. They expect something may be done against me._

 

“So long as Father is not here,” Brandon begins as they near their chambers, “I am responsible for the lot of you. Especially you, little sister.”

 

“I know.”

 

He gives her a piercing stare. “You won't be leaving my sights, Lyanna, not for the rest of the Tourney. Not even with Benjen. You’ll have guards at your doors too, until I come to fetch you.”

 

She's shocked enough that no words come to her until they're within the safety of his chambers. “But, big brother—”

 

“No, Lyanna,” he cuts across her protest, hands fisting at his sides. “Do you _understand_ what just happened? What Prince Rhaegar _did_? I will not allow anyone to shame you. I will not allow a man grown, _and married_ , to make advances on you!” He stops to take a breath, and makes an effort to lower his voice. “Crown Prince or not, _even the fucking King_. I will not allow it.”

 

“I didn’t want it,” she says, gaze falling.

 

Memories of the past days rush at her, from the moment the Prince came upon her and Benjen as she tried to get rid of the shield. His promises to keep her secret and his words of admiration at her audacity. How she’d used her little brother as an excuse to wander off alone so she could meet this man who seemed to understand her so very perfectly. Shockingly, for Lyanna had never been one to divulge her problems to stranger—and Prince Rhaegar is even more of a stranger than her betrothed—but, _shockingly_ , she’d bared her soul before him, told him of her hopes and dreams and how it would all come to a swift end soon enough. Of her fears, her dissatisfaction with the man that would be her lord husband. How it came to that? Even now, Lyanna cannot say. His charm, perhaps? His gentle eyes and encouraging words?

 

Was it when he’d dared to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, that she’d decided there would never be a better man than Rhaegar Targaryen? That the Princess Elia was indeed the luckiest woman to walk the realm, for being his bride? The _only_ touch, if that, but something in her had fluttered and _then_ – his own confessions. And then – _kindred spirits_ , she’d thought, _we are kindred spirits_. And then:

 

 _“Such valor, Lady Lyanna.”_ Her name had never sounded like— _“Would if I could honor you in some way, reward you.”_

 

_“I need no reward, my Prince. I did it because it was the right thing to do. I want no reward.”_

 

 _Stupid, stupid girl._ She’d taken his smile as agreement, an acceptance of her wishes. _But it wasn’t, was it? Of course, it wasn’t. Did he plan this from the beginning? Or was it a decision he made yesterday, when we spoke last?_ A man grown and married, with a little girl waiting for him in King’s Landing and a wife carrying another babe. A shiver runs down her spine, much like before, dreadful thing that makes her flinch in revulsion and it _sinks_. It suddenly becomes crystal clear _what_ it is that happened. The wife that carries his child, ignored. _For what?_

 

“Brandon,” she says, hating how she sounds like a desperate little girl trying to convince her big brother that she did no wrong. “I promise, I didn’t ask for it.”

 

Her brother softens almost immediately, wraps his arms around her and brings her closer, and damn it all, but she _feels_ like a child now.

 

“I know, little sister, I know.”

 

*****

 

Lyanna disobeys.

 

But of course, she does.

 

Long before daybreak, she lies in wait of the first signs of her brothers rousing; the castle is still very much silent so early in the morning. She is lucky that Brandon had conceded their guards be at the end of the hallway leading to their chambers, lucky that Ned had managed to convince him. Because Lyanna had grown fairly familiar with the many hidden passages, or at least the ones she’d found, she manages to sneak out quickly, and without alerting the guards. With a quick and silent apologize to the northmen, for they will most certainly bear the brunt of Brandon’s ire once they find her missing.

 

Why would she risk this, though? There had been discussion of what to do last night, once Ned had returned from speaking to Robert with the final confirmation of this madness. _“Robert won’t back down.”_ Lyanna had proclaimed her intentions not to attend, then; Brandon had been quick to put an end to those thoughts, quick to remind her why it was imperative that she _did_.

 

_“You will attend, we all will, Lyanna. And you will support Robert as you are expected to.”_

 

That’d been a sour thing to swallow, but she’d kept her silence, ate supper and then left to sleep. And now she meanders through a silent field that holds mostly empty tents, where all those who participated in the Tourney’s activities kept their armor and weapons.

 

It’s not really hard to spot the Baratheon banners, Lyanna’s been there a handful of times since the beginning of the event. Not alone, however, she’d always came along with Ned and Benjen, to have them act as a buffer, in a show of muted rebellion to the betrothal; Ned had indulged it, albeit not happily, Brandon not for long. But as Robert had only participated in the melee, she’d been spared any more visits to this tent and any further time spent together with her betrothed had happened elsewhere. _I did not go to support him then_ , Lyanna thinks as she stands before the entrance of the tent. _But I did give him my favor, when he asked it of me._ She’d carried no handkerchief with her that day, so had had no other choice but to part with the ribbon she’d used to tie her hair.

 

Robert had been happy with that, had tucked it under his doublet, before disappearing into the tent to get ready. And Lyanna – she’d made her excuses to leave because there were more important matters to attend, _things to plan_. Strangely enough, she remembers the smile Robert had given her that day; had dreamt that smile the night before, and the booming laugh and the jolly glint in his eyes. All of which had vanished the moment Prince Rhaegar stopped his horse in front of her. _Support him. I’d much rather he desist, I’ve no need of his attempts to defend my honor._

 

What a vile lie that is.

 

“My lady!”

 

Startled, Lyanna turns to come face to face with Robert’s squire, whose name she now struggles to recall.

 

“My lady, you shouldn’t be here,” the boy, not older than her, looks around; it is still dark, and it’s not hard to guess at his thoughts. “Not alone, something could’ve – my lord!”

 

Once again, she turns around, though this time she isn’t surprised. Robert stands there, holding the tent’s flap off to the side. He jerks his head at his squire, and the boy hurries in, carrying, what she realizes is, Robert’s armor. Her betrothed steps away from the tent, to her, and perhaps her heart isn't as closed off to him as she thought it to be; Lyanna laments the missing spark of happiness that always danced in his eyes whenever he looked at her.

 

“My lady,” he begins, “have you come to ask me to forfeit the duel?”

 

“Ned tried?”

 

“He did.”

 

The fact that he didn't succeed goes unsaid.

 

“If I ask, would you do it?” Lyanna is well aware of Robert's affections; he's been painfully obvious about them, despite everything. She may doubt his faithfulness, but she doesn't doubt his love and devotion. “For _me_ , would you forfeit the duel?”

 

Robert frowns, and the thought that it doesn't suit him passes by her too fast to properly acknowledge it. “Lyanna,” he says, “I would do near everything you asked of me. But not this, I cannot. Not when it comes to this… _insult_.”

 

The thunderous expression that twists his handsome face then, far from being terrifying, it makes her think of the day he’d accompanied her to watch the mummer’s show – not something she’d wanted to do to begin with, had chosen to make the time spent with Robert as boring as possible so he may stop _trying_. A foolish endeavor, especially when shortly after the show begun, Robert had provided her with an endless string of commentary to the futility of it all, pointing out inaccuracies of the story being told and overall making jest of its failings. _That_ , Lyanna can say for sure, that had been the first time her betrothed had managed to bring a smile out of her.

 

Now his hand closes around her elbow, unexpectedly pulling her closer, and she raises her free hand to plant it firmly on his chest, prepares to push him away when she realizes his eyes are solely focused on something behind her. _No, not something._ A chill runs down her spine. _Someone._ Lyanna doesn’t need to look over her shoulder, Robert’s expression alone is enough of a clue as to whom stands there; she takes a conscious step closer to him, her hand grabs at his doublet and anyone, _anyone watching them_ , would not doubt they're to be wed. No one would even consider the thought of either being discontent with the arrangement, not now.

 

_Not now._

 

The moment is brief; Robert is following the retreat of his opponent with his blue eyes, his hold on her gentle even as his body shakes with tightly controlled rage. Then he exhales, focuses on her, and Lyanna watches in wonder as his face _softens_. She takes note of many things, too: how big he is, how she must tilt her head back to look at him, _he’s so tall_. Lyanna doesn’t know if Robert is aware that she’s nagged Ned into telling her all about him, his faults and vices and whatever virtues her brother believes his friend has.

 

_“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”_

 

Old Nan – she’d always say that, whenever she or Benjen pushed for more to her stories. It is the reason why she refrains from demanding answers of Robert, asking for promises; who’s to say he would keep them? Nothing of their interactions has hinted at deceit from his part. _So, who’s to say he won’t simply refuse anything I ask of him?_ Near everything, he says. _That still leaves room for some things he won’t do, like this one._

 

“Does Ned know you’re here?”

 

Before she can answer, her brother appears as if summoned.

 

“Robert! It’s – _Lyanna!_ ”

 

She turns to meet the anxious gaze of her most gentle brother, watches him run towards them, and knows she’ll be facing a scolding as soon as they meet up with Brandon. _And I didn't manage to stop this._ That's probably the sourest thought.

 

But Brandon says nothing, just keeps her hand trapped in the crook of his arm, keeps them all close by.

 

Her eyes remain fixed on the side from which Robert is to appear, on the Baratheon banners. She ignores the murmurs and the stares, and the sudden raise in volume that could only mean Prince Rhaegar's arrival. King Aerys and Princess Elia had been in their seats when she and her brothers arrived. Despite the grave setting for the duel, everyone seems to grow excited with the Prince’s arrival.

 

 _Then_ , Robert enters the field atop his horse, warhammer in one hand while the other cradled his horned helmet close to his side. There’s this determined look on his face, unforgiving, unyielding; then he puts on the helmet and secures his shield on his arm.

 

The murmuring becomes whispering and, soon enough, excited chatter. The opponents circle one another, awaiting the King’s final words, their armors seeming to glow in morning light. Then the moment comes, the crowd grows anxious.

 

Lyanna hears little over pounding of her blood in her ears, suddenly glad for Brandon’s insistence that she remain close. The circling prevents her from not glimpsing Prince Rhaegar, but other than noting the sparkling rubies on his breastplate and what looks to be silk streamers hanging down from his helmet, she finds no real interest in him. He’s no longer this gallant man that’d promised to keep her secret; he’s lost all the appeal he may’ve had before his thoughtless action revealed his true nature. _A whim._ The King had called it that, but still, she understands little.

 

They stop; Lyanna focuses on her betrothed. _Then_ , Robert lowers his visor, twirls his warhammer once and grips it tightly.

 

She follows his every move. _I must support him_ , she thinks, takes in the sight he presents. Big and strong, his armor shining black and gold as the sun keeps rising, the surcoat covering mail and breastplate displays the crowned stag proudly. _He looks ready for war._ Her chest flutters; she remembers Ned mentioning Robert’s skill at arms, his admiring tone. _“He will make a great commander one day.”_ Lyanna believes it, watching him now, the fluttering picking up a mad pace – his charger huffs and stomps its hooves on the ground, sending dust to fly all about him. It is a strange feeling what sweeps over her, though she recognizes the _excitement_. _It’s just the possibility of watching a good fight._ Lyanna tries her hardest to find a coherent reason for _this_ , the urge to gasp, the tingling in her belly, the warmth climbing up her neck – she pushes it all back.

 

 _Then_ , at last, it begins.

 

*****

 

The first clash makes a thunderous sound; it startles her, not really expecting it to be that loud.

 

Their horses rear back after the impact, time seems to be suspended for an instant and then they bring their weapons down on each other. The second clash is as loud as the first, though she’s better prepared for it; she's not prepared for the raising chatter, the climbing noise that soon turns into excited cheers and shouts. _Do these people not understand what's happening?_ Lyanna wonders, her eyes following every move of the fighting men; the swerving of their steeds and the way they'd deflect incoming attacks either with their shields or their weapons. They would urge their horses to make a small turn before charging determinedly towards each other. Each clash getting louder than the last, but neither getting any closer to besting their opponent.

 

They collide once again, though Prince Rhaegar manages to create an opening in Robert's defenses, too late as the Lord of Storm's End pulls on the reins with force to bring his horse to a halt and uses the hilt of his warhammer to stop the swing of the sword coming at him. There's no time to pause, the Prince charges again, seeming to put Robert on the defensive.

 

Then—

 

“The Prince is too good, that Baratheon was a fool to think he could be a match to him. A _duel_ – he's a reckless fool.”

 

“What was he supposed to do? You saw what happened – even His Grace called it an insult.”

 

“It doesn't matter, if he expected to win…”

 

Loathe as she might, Lyanna must admit the gossiping lords are right. The longer the fight proceeds, the more it becomes obvious that Prince Rhaegar is the more skilled warrior. Casting a quick glance at Ned, though – her gentlest brother looks calm as he watches the duel, watches his dear friend clash with one of the most skilled men of the realm, _unconcerned_. It makes her wonder, is it because he's certain of Robert's skill? Something else? Then, almost as if compelled, she turns to risk a glimpse of the King and frowns.

 

His Grace looks _thrilled_.

 

The next thunderous clash snaps her attention back just in time to witness the brief struggle between both men before the motion of their mounts pull them apart. And then they turn, once they reach the edge of the field, turn and break into a fast gallop.

 

Lyanna would swear time slows down – Robert lift his shield, leaving a wide opening, while his other arm rears back to strike. _Lower your arm_ , she thinks urgently. They charge, charge, _charge_. _Your shield, Robert, lower your shield!_ Prince Rhaegar prepares to strike, the closer they get. And distantly, she hears her brothers hiss in disbelief. _Robert, lower your shield!_

 

“What is he doing?”

 

 _The last clash_ – a sword draws a wide arc, slashes through clothes and mail and skin. Blood flies with the motion, droplets falling on dirt and armor and sticking to steel. The crowd gasps _and_ —the hammer hits its mark, sending Prince Rhaegar tumbling to the ground. The air leaves her chest in a rush – the Prince lies on the ground as his horse rushes to the edges of the field; Robert slows down his own to a canter, reaching the opposite side before stopping.

 

_What did he do?_

 

Intellectually, the answer is obvious; scarce, yet her knowledge is enough to know Robert had risked a wound to unhorse his opponent. But the full scope of his actions hits her, when the murmurs become loud whispering, and words like “lost” and “first blood” reach her ears.

 

“Did Robert lose?” Benjen asks, shifting closer.

 

 _No, he can't_ , comes the thought, as she leans forward anxiously. _He can't lose._ Somehow, through all of this, this outcome had never crossed her mind; then comes another thought, one that has her clenching her hands on her lap. _What does this mean for me?_

 

But King Aerys remains in his seat, looking just as thrilled, just as satisfied, as his gazes upon the field. And when Robert turns his horse around to face the fallen Prince, when he shifts the grip on his warhammer, when the charger stomps its hooves restlessly – when it looks like he'll break into a furious gallop again, His Grace smirks.

 

The horse huffs; Lyanna can't move her eyes away from her betrothed. He looks nothing at all like a gallant knight, _but_ – even with blood staining his surcoat, the sun at his back makes his armor shine gold, he looks imposing and terrifying with shield and warhammer at hand _and his antlered helm_ …

 

Her heart skips a beat.

 

_He… he looks like a horned god._

 

Some members of the Kingsguard take a step towards the Prince, but the eerily calm voice of the King stops them.

 

“Ser Gerold,” he begins, “what are you doing?”

 

The silence reigns over the place, only broken by Robert's horse.

 

“First blood!” Ser Gerold exclaims. “Your Grace, Prince Rhaegar drew first blood, that means—”

 

“Nothing.” The word cuts across that sentence mercilessly, barely sparing a glance at the commander of his guard. “The duel ends when one of them yields.”

 

Down in the field, Prince Rhaegar stands, drops his shield to the ground and grabs his sword with both hands.

 

The King smirks again. “My son… will not yield.”

 

Robert dismounts, to the shock of many – _everyone_. He dismounts and drops his shield as well, and then advances on Prince Rhaegar menacingly.

 

The Prince charges at him, with renewed vigor, making an upwards slash that's firmly blocked by Robert. Their clash is not as thunderous, steel against iron the only distinct sound raising above the nervous hum of the crowd. Swing, dodge, thrust, block. Parry.

 

Parry. Swing, dodge. Block, thrust, twist. Push.

 

Swing, swing, _swing_.

 

A hand descends over hers, startling her; Lyanna turns shocked eyes on her gentle brother.

 

“Be calm, little sister.” Ned smiles. “Robert won't lose.”

 

“I know.”

 

She risks a glance in the King's direction. _That is not what worries me._ Too late, perhaps, she wonders what would happen to Robert if he were to injure Prince Rhaegar, what would King Aerys do? His excitement scares her, the pure joy reflecting in his face, _almost_ as if— the rumors about his madness had spread throughout the realm, and his haggard appearance seemed to have heightened this notion when he arrived. Lyanna never thought that to be truth until now, the madness, never understood her lord father's discontent.

 

Until now.

 

The crowd holds its breath – her attention is pulled back onto the duel, she gasps. _What happened?_ Robert towers above the kneeling form of Prince Rhaegar, who cradles his arm close to his chest. _When…?_ His visor is lifted, and once more, her betrothed rears back, arms preparing to make the final swing and off to the side, Lyanna thinks she sees the King leaning forward eagerly.

 

The warhammer makes its descent; she jumps to her feet and grabs the wooden rail.

 

_“ROBERT!”_

 

The hammer halts above the Prince’s head, but Robert doesn't turn to look at her. Several, agonizingly slow seconds pass by—the pressure of everyone's eyes on her, though she keeps her own focused on her betrothed—and then he lowers his weapon. The wind picks up; they can all see Prince Rhaegar shake his head before Robert slams his foot on his chest and pushes him onto the ground.

 

_“YIELD!”_

 

“I yield!”

 

 _It’s over._ Brandon grabs her hand and urges back onto her seat as Robert steps back and the Kingsguard rush to help their Prince. _It’s over, Robert’s won._ The silence is enough proof to know no one expected this outcome. Against her better judgement, Lyanna looks up at His Grace, only to find him frowning at her, before he turns to bark orders at the men to bring his son closer. And that look, it gives her more of a chill than the Prince’s look did.

 

“You’ve lost, my son,” says the King, softly, and it is only the reigning silence what allows them to hear him.

 

There’s no reply to his statement.

 

“You fought well, I am proud.” If there’s a hint a mockery in his tone, no one would dare mention it, no one would be completely sure. “But you’ve lost, nonetheless. Now, Lord Baratheon,” the King stands, motions for Robert to move closer, “you dared to challenge my heir when he dared insult to you and your betrothed. As custom dictates, a man ought to give that honor to his lady wife. Perhaps you might show the prince how an _honor_ is given.”

 

A Whent soldier rushes into the field, carrying a wreath of multicolored flowers carefully, and presents it to Robert.

 

“I had another wreath made for this special occasion,” says King Aerys, and waits until Robert takes it and the soldier scurries away before resuming his speech. “The last one… was ruined, no longer fitting for its purpose. Now, do not let me keep you from your lady.”

 

Whatever it is the King does then, Lyanna misses it; she blinks and feels the pressure of every gaze on her again, feels her hands shake in her lap as she struggles to wipe her face of any emotion. But she knows she must look pale, and a little frightened for her brothers to begin offering soft encouragements in hushed whispers.

 

The thought comes to her, once more, she cannot meet Robert’s gaze – _I do not want to be honored_.

 

“My King, I thank you for this. Truly, words cannot express the depth of my gratitude.” His tone is light, but it's the edge she detects what makes her look up; Robert smiles, sharp and bold. “But I've spent the past ten days giving Lady Lyanna a variety of flowers, dozens upon dozens, as a show of my affections.”

 

A truth, anyone paying attention the past ten days would have noticed it. She and Robert had spent enough time in each other's company, he had spent enough time showering with presents of all kinds.

 

He takes his antlered helm off; and it's only for a brief moment, but even as flustered as he is, tired and sweaty, Lyanna thinks him handsome.

 

“My betrothed deserves... _more_ from me now.”

 

There's no immediate outrage from the King, he looks at Robert with careful consideration, and then smiles in something akin to triumph. “Of course, Lord Baratheon. However _someone_ still must receive the crown of flowers.”

 

Robert nods, walks a few steps to the side, and stops. “Princess Elia,” he says, raising the hand that holds the wreath. “I know this might sound hypocritical, but I truly mean no insult.”

 

“My lord?”

 

“Everyone here knows you should've been crowned Queen of Love and Beauty.”

 

The attention of the people divides between Princess Elia and herself. A part of Lyanna understand what is being done, another still fears he'll face retribution. _Idiot, what are you thinking?_ Princess Elia deserves this, mostly though, she deserves _not_ to be shamed by her husband. If Robert wishes to fix that, pay the Dornish Princess her due, she'll applaud him. But not if he runs the risk of facing the King's ire.

 

“Yes… she should have.”

 

Princess Elia looks at her good-father in shock upon hearing his words, briefly, before standing up. Ser Arthur rushes to her side, offers his hand so she may have an easier time nearing the rail separating her from Robert. She reaches over, taking the flower crown and smiles gently.

 

“Thank you, Lord Baratheon.”

 

There's not much to say or do after that. Both Robert and the Prince leave the field, the King close behind his son. Princess Elia is escorted by her brother back to the castle, only this time, Ser Arthur follows them.

 

Lyanna waits for the moment Brandon rounds on Ned to make her move.

 

And she sneaks away, _again_.

 

*****

 

She'll bear Brandon's ire if she must but Lyanna won't be denied the chance to speak to Robert in private. His squire can be dismissed; his squire _is_ dismissed once she says she needs to confess a secret.

 

“My lady,” he begins once she's remained silent for too long; he sits on a bench, clearly tired, bleeding a little, and with half of his armor still on. “You wished to speak.”

 

After deliberating for a moment, she takes a step closer, then another and another, until she stands right in front of him, between his splayed legs. “You must promise me not to interrupt.” Perhaps not the best way to open this conversation, but Lyanna isn't about to let him go off on another rampage. “Please, Robert, promise me.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Before she can stop herself, Lyanna starts unbuckling the leather straps to help him out of his armor. “I… I am the Knight of the Laughing Tree.” A quick glare is quick to remind him of his promise, and then she proceeds to relate the whole story as her hands worked diligently. “I just wanted to help Howland and teach those men a lesson.”

 

Because she pauses longer this time, Robert manages to speak. “You unhorsed three well-trained and well-prepared knights with ease.” There's wonder in his voice and a grin on his face, that grin that's been missing since yesterday. “I should be surprised.”

 

 _You should be disappointed_ , she wants to say, because what she did is not appropriate behavior for ladies. But Robert looks thoroughly amused, he looks much the same when she was being defiant. It makes her flounder, his reaction; worse _yet_ , it makes her feel a whole lot of other things he had no business making her feel. _Doesn't he? He's my betrothed, shouldn't he be the only one to make me feel like… whatever this is?_ And when he starts laughing, it’s all she can do not to slap him, but she does stop helping him, to cross her arms and _pout_.

 

That makes him laugh harder.

 

It's vindictive of her, but Lyanna presses a hand to the cut on his side, effectively stopping his amusement. Robert hisses, flinching away from her touch.

 

“I'm not done, my lord,” she snaps.

 

“Right. Forgive me, please go on.”

 

They move together to remove his mail, a struggle as he is suddenly feeling all the blows he took while dueling. Robert doesn't do much more than hiss or grunt, but the pained grimace twisting his face is enough to worry her.

 

“Perhaps I should go get a maester—”

 

“No, please.” Once he's stripped off it and his tunic, Robert grabs her hand and urges her to move closer. “I'm fine, that can wait.”

 

“But—”

 

“Stay.” There's another gentle pull. “I want to hear the rest of your tale.”

 

Her free hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and for moment, she's mesmerized by the feel of solid muscle. _The body of a warrior._ Lyanna supposes all men who've a measure of some sort of training would have muscles such as this. But she's sure it wouldn't be the same; her brothers, for one, all well trained but none having Robert's build. Even Prince Rhaegar, who stood near as tall, it’d seemed to her, is slim in comparison. She watches her hand move over his skin, down his arms to map out the shape of it, before retracing her motions until her hand's splayed out over his chest.

 

His breath hitches, and when he speaks next, his voice sounds rougher than before. “Your tale, Lyanna?”

 

It makes her feel warm all over.

 

“Prince Rhaegar found me as I tried to get rid of the shield, me and Benjen,” she says, and untangles the hand entwined with his to bring up and press it over his chest as well. “He said he would keep the secret, and he did.” Her hands stroke the hard planes of his chest carefully, he fingers trace the thin scars he’s acquired during training and fights; Lyanna takes note of every stutter coming from him, the puffs of air leaving him colliding with her front, the way his muscles flutter under her fingers. She’s suddenly left feeling breathless. “He said… he said he would honor my bravery if he could, I—”

 

“I know.” His interruption comes with the feel of his hands grabbing hold of her hips; this heady feeling falling over them, it’s maddening. “I was watching you. You didn’t… look thrilled.”

 

Their eyes meet, then, Lyanna shakes her head vehemently. “I didn’t ask for it. I told him I didn’t need…”

 

Robert hums, nods his head in agreement; he tugs at her and, before she knows it, Lyanna is dropping bum first onto his thigh. “It’s all right, my lady.”

 

“So…” And _why_ is it that she needs to ask this? “Are you still angry?” _With me_ , she wants to add, _with the Prince_.

 

“Fucking furious,” it's his reply, though it lacks much of the viciousness of the previous day and early this morning. “But not with you, just… with Rhaegar.” Robert nuzzles her cheek, his unabashed grin obvious when he presses his lips to her reddened face. “I'd rather stop talking about him now, if it would please my lady.”

 

“It would please me,” Lyanna says, very softly.

 

He keeps nuzzling her cheek, occasionally nudging her chin with his nose; his hands move to her waist, thumbs rubbing circles over her belly but doing nothing else. Robert gives her no more kisses, but she feels like she ought to ask for another one. _A proper one_ , comes the thought, startlingly clear, shifting her position on his thigh so she may face him more comfortably. His grin is bright, all negative emotions fleeing somewhere far away and – does she really wants Robert Baratheon to kiss her?

 

“I—”

 

_“Lyanna.”_

 

She's jumping to her feet and moving away even before her mind recognizes the barely controlled growl of her name. _Brandon._ Lyanna manages to catch Robert's sheepish look, before she turns to face her older brother with a defiant stance, head tilted back and arms crossed. Ned seems to be torn between shock and disapproval, while Benjen is simply confused – with good reason, considering all she's been complaining about this arrangement to him since it happened.

 

“He's my betrothed.”

 

The fact that she's using that as an _excuse_ , it's truly baffling. But Lyanna won't let anyone cast doubt on this – whatever this is. _Nothing wrong, we were doing nothing wrong._ And if she diligently silences the voice reminding her of Robert's state of undress, of the fact she'd sat on his lap and remained there _knowing_ what it would look like to others _._ _It looked like nothing._

 

“Challenging the Crown Prince in defense of her honor does _not_ give you liberties with our sister, Lord Baratheon.”

 

“Of course. Forgive me, Lord Brandon, I must've gotten carried away. It won't happen again.”

 

Both men stand facing each other, ignoring her either purposely or not, she won't have it. Lyanna fumes, because she won't let them speak of her as if she's some simpering idiot who'd let herself be charmed by false promises. _Isn't that what exactly happened with the Prince?_ She stomps her feet, growling even despite Brandon's warning glare.

 

“Nothing happened,” she grounds out, glaring back at Brandon and pointedly ignoring Robert's poorly veiled amusement. “I came to talk, and—”

 

“Couldn't you have waited until he was fully dressed?” Benjen’s well-meaning question earns him a fierce glare that has him flinching back. “Or not.”

 

Brandon pinches the bridge of his nose, huffs in exasperation. “You were alone, in a tent, with a half-dressed man, while sitting on his _lap_ and—”

 

“Nothing happened!” The urge to push her brother comes then, almost overwhelming. Because, while that is true, Lyanna must admit, if only to herself, something almost _did_ happen. “And if it had, it would've been so only because I _allowed_ it.”

 

“You cannot _allow_ —”

 

_“Cannot?”_

 

“Robert, have you been checked by a maester?” Ned asks, loudly and cutting off a potential blow up.

 

That brings back the image of his wound, the very same she’d touched out of spite to make him stop laughing. Lyanna turns and hurries to his side, leaning in close to get a better look of his cut – which makes Brandon growl in frustration because _that’s not something ladies do_. Ned sighs in resignation while Benjen tries to muffle his giggles that if you were to ask he'd tell you it's not a giggle.

 

Her face blooms with heat, finally realizing the position she's _in_ , the position she'd _been_ in before her brothers walked in. It seems to be one thing after the other, since the start of the Tourney, Lyanna’s been jumping from one questionable situation to the next; if Brandon knew the extent of it… Robert is now the only one beside the Prince to know. And there are still a few things she’d left out. _Such as those… moments_ , she thinks with a grimace.

 

“It really isn’t as bad as it looks,” says Robert, probably mistaking the reasons for her expression.

 

So, she lets him believe that. “You don’t how it looks like.”

 

Before anything else can be said, Brandon pulls her back, not forcefully, but with enough intent that his meaning is clear without having it voiced. “Well, Robert, anything you need to say to Lyanna can be said in a _public_ place, preferably, after you’ve been seen to by a maester.”

 

Again, she fumes because it’s been her the one to seek Robert out, and for her brother to place the blame on _him_. As it is, there’s no time to protest, soon enough, Lyanna is being walked out of the tent.

 

In a last moment of defiance, she calls back, “I’ll tell your squire to fetch a maester!”

 

Robert’s booming laugh follows her all the way back to the castle, and once the Tourney’s officially over, she’ll realize it will also follow her all the way back to Winterfell. For now, though, she’ll take comfort in knowing that at least one of the man in her life is not terribly cross with her, even if it’s not the one she’d expect.


End file.
